Plausible Deniability
by Domon Kasshu
Summary: [Movieverse] Eddie never felt like the government told the truth about what happened in Mission City. His search for the truth has led him to more crackpots than a Roswell anniversary, but he's getting closer. But will he like what he finds in the end?


_A/N: I never really bought into the idea that the battle in Mission City, let alone all the other incidents, could be easily covered up. However, assuming they did, someone would ask questions. It makes for a fun story, at the very least. _

Eddie leaned back in his chair and, instead of the words being spoken, focused on the aroma around him. Stale coffee, burnt sausage, and the faint smell of cigarette smoke drifting from a corner table. All that blended together over a powerful background of the sort of smell you expect when human beings gather in a single place with no air conditioning in summertime. He missed air conditioning. The break room at Qualor had it. The break room also had a cappuccino machine, with three different flavors and a separate nozzle for whip cream. The people at this fine establishment looked at him as though they never heard the word cappuccino. The worst part was, he was here of his own choice.

"What do you think?"

He sized up the woman in front of him. The past few months gave him plenty of experience, and more often than not his hunches proved correct. She wore designer clothes, her hair perfected under the precise hands of a stylist. Gold jewelry, not terribly elaborate, but more than your average person could afford. Perfectly manicured fingernails, the kind that let you do little more than look pretty. Daddy's money, he decided. Maybe she thought he could angle a television appearance for her.

He rubbed his temples and looked back at the notepad in front of him. She'd rambled on far longer than necessary, but he got the essentials of the story. It would be of no use to him. She probably expected a response. Practice told him the one to go with.

"So, you almost hit this kid."

"Yeah."

"And then... the steering wheel of your car turned into a hand?"

"Like, a claw. More like a claw."

"Uh huh. And when what happened?"

"We managed to get out, and the car drove off."

Eddie ran one hand through his hair, and muttered a curse. It was thinning after all. He'd be bald by the time he was forty. Then again, his father had a full head of hair, and currently resided in a rest home. You could always get a toupee. He closed his eyes, and focused back on the young woman's story. "Someone stole your car??"

"No. The car drove off by itself."

He added a generous helping of drugs to his previous assessment.

--

Eddie threw the notepad into the passenger's seat of his car in disgust. Another waste of time. He pulled out his cell phone, looked at the day planner on it. Two more interviews. Caitlin Richards and Marshall Whitmann. Richards, he noted with little enthusiasm, looked to be another crackpot like his earlier interview. Whitmann, on the other hand, looked like the sort of witness he'd hoped for. No sensationalism, no crazy stories. Instead, he thought his cousin might be involved with the incident. He might not get a lot from the young man, but another piece in the puzzle. Enough pieces, and the picture is revealed.

That's why he dropped everything, quit Qualor and hit the road, researching the Mission City incident. Truth be told, though he sometimes missed his co-workers, he'd hoped to break new ground in mechanical engineering. Qualor ran in place, pumping out the same tired solutions to the same tired problems. He'd been saving to open his own business. Smaller, more efficient, more groundbreaking. And then Mission City happened.

Officially, they said a civilian firm's highly advanced prototype had malfunctioned. That alone got Eddie's attention. He'd never heard of Seibertech Industries before. The government produced a significant paper trail, and that convinced most people. But not him. Sure, the documents confirmed the company existed since 1984. They even produced the patents that the company held. But paper proved the only trail it left. He'd never seen reference to an actual facility. What's more, other than the company's president, Tom Banachek, and a few other employees, he'd heard of no one that worked for Seibertech. Television news usually got everyone whose brother's cousin might have worked as a janitor, in the hopes of some insight. But no one came forward.

The story nagged at Eddie's brain for all of three days before he quit with no notice and started interviewing witnesses.

One of his mentors, a nuclear physicist, left his regular job to study UFOs. While he found that field dubious at best, a part of him found the role of a lone crusader for justice somehow romantic. Not to mention, Stan loved to call and share stories. He loved the little pieces of credible evidence he found and, if nothing else, they shared good laughs over the crackpots. When Eddie told him of his plans, he of course wondered if UFOs might be responsible.

He didn't know what really happened in Mission City. But he noticed a number of things. One, most of the witnesses he spoke with came across as rehearsed. Minute variations appeared here and there, but always the same. The story reminded him of when he and his friends would try to match up stories to avoid trouble. His father, an astute man, always asked about the details. Of course, they would never match. So he asked about the details.

Twenty people, all of whom shared the same details about the rest of the story, told a different version of how the church was destroyed.

He'd decided long ago terrorists, not an industrial accident, caused the devastation in Mission City. They'd gotten their hands on some kind of military vehicle. How else did you explain the enormous military response? The global communications blackout, supposedly a coincidence of timing, came at the same time. The only question that remained, in his mind, was why the government kept it quiet. Maybe there were more sleeper cells out there, and they didn't want to tip their hand.

The answers lay out there, hidden in a million pieces. He only needed to put them together.

--

Marshall Whitmann proved quite difficult to miss.

He stood a few inches taller than anyone else in the food court, though he certainly didn't carry himself that way. Instead, he glanced over his shoulder as Eddie approached. They shook hands, gave quick introductions, and Marshall led him to the corner furthest away from the crowd. The entire time, he made inane banter. It made it sound like the two had known each other for years, rather than a few weeks. Once they sat down, Marshall took a few bites of his hamburger before lowering his voice.

"I gotta be careful," he said.

"Careful?"

"People watching, at least when I'm around Glen."

Eddie glanced at the notes from our first conversation. "Your cousin, right?"

"Yeah."

"You said you think he might be involved?"

"I'm pretty sure he is," Marshall replied. "He's been weird, ever since he moved out here."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, check this out. Glen picks me up from the airport, and he's driving this tricked out pick-up. Glen used to make fun of guys who tricked out pick-ups. On the way back, he'd railing on me for spilling crumbs in there. He never cared before."

"It was a new truck, right?"

"Yeah, but he's acting like it's someone else's truck, like someone's gonna be mad at him. And the radio's listening to country. Country! Glen wouldn't let me change it, either. I know all the words to 'The Man Comes Around', now. And suddenly, Glen's even a better driver. I think... the feds got to him. Programmed him, or something."

"Feds."

"We got busted by the FBI. I know it sounds crazy, but..."

"It always sounds crazy. Go on."

"This girl Glen knew from the internet showed up. Next thing we know, we get arrested. We're detained for a few days, then just let go. No questions asked, a brief apology, and a nice fat check to pay for damages and the inconvenience."

"This girl he knew from the internet. Someone he dated?"

Marshall started to choke, a few peals of laughter escaping from his throat. "Damn, man, I almost snorted tomato. No, no. Glen definitely never dated Maggie. She was kinda outta his league, you know?"

"Maggie Madsen?"

"You've heard of her."

"A few leads have mentioned her in the past. So, you think she's involved in what happened?"

"Probably. She got there, feds followed."

Eddie took a bite of the hamburger, and tried to arrange the pieces. he'd heard Maggie Madsen's name tied in with the Rann Corporation, but had no clue why she ran off to talk with Glen Whitmann. He'd not heard his name until his cousin called me, and research yielded nothing. Marshall claimed Glen was a hacker, but Eddie saw no paper trail, no arrest records or official investigations. All that told him, however, was he was good enough not to get caught. He was missing a piece of the story, a critical piece.

"Do you know what they were talking about?"

"I just know I had to stop my game," Marshall said, a frown crossing his face. "Never been that close to beating it."

"My apologies." Eddie tried to make it sound as sincere as possible.

"I remember a sound, though," he added after a moment. "I was leaving the room, but I still heard it."

"What kind of sound?"

"You ever seen the 'Will It Blend' stuff?"

"Can't say that I have."

"This guy puts stuff in a blender he's selling, crazy stuff, man. This thing, sounds like he threw a Terminator in there."

It took Eddie a moment to decide how to note that. "Anything else you can remember?"

"They were being pretty quiet," he said. "But it must've been important. Glen didn't want me in there, at all. Looking back on it, I'm not sure if he wanted to keep the info to himself... or if he was trying to protect me."

"Or maybe he was hoping to get with the girl."

"Didn't you listen, man?" Marshall smiled. "Outta his league. Way outta his league."

--

The cell phone found its way into Eddie's hand, almost of its own accord. He'd gotten some decent leads from Marshall Whitmann, and a few new angles to look at. Marshall told a few hacking stories, but probably thought he did his cousin a favor by leaving out names and dates. No matter. The outline gave him enough information to give to Josh Harding, one of his former co-workers who made money on the side in ways some might consider less than ethical. He knew about high profile breaches, the handles of prominent hackers, all sorts of useful tidbits. His tip that activity in the community hit a low a few days before Mission City helped Eddie with his leads. He wanted to pursue it further.

He'd dialed the first three numbers of Caitlin Richards's phone number, ready to call off their meeting. If you heard one crackpot theory, you'd heard them all. Caitlin's first contact with him fit the profile he dubbed "nut job". She was very quiet, and didn't want to get into details. She just said she could show him the truth about Mission City. The truth, he'd come to find, usually involved space aliens, government conspiracies dating back to Washington, Atlanteans or, if he was really lucky, all three rolled into one. But he couldn't finish dialing the number, something nagging at the back of his mind.

He drove to the cafe, a short distance away, and rummaged through his notes. He had a "crackpot" file, with enough data to keep Art Bell busy for months. He looked over a few of the pieces. Sketches of strange, humanoid aliens. One had the typical "grey" alien eyes, but the round mouth was a new touch. A tiny piece of yellow metal a witness said came from a top secret government exoskeleton. A blurry cell phone picture someone claimed was a top secret weapon, but looked to all the world like a tricked out Peterbilt. Only the face gave him pause. Well, it looked like a face, anyway. It was strange, angular and made up of smaller geometric shapes. The wild eyed man who showed it to him said it was the "mark of the beast". Maybe not, but something about it still unsettled him.

He ordered a latte, and drank most of it. He left a little in the cup. After he finished the interview, he'd complain it was too cold, not flavorful enough, something to get a refund. No sense spending too much money on crazies.

A few minute later, Caitlin Richards arrived, and Eddie immediately felt glad he'd not called off the meeting.

Over the course of these interviews, he'd seen women most would dub attractive. Of course, most of them sculpted their beauty in front of a mirror, with hours of make-up, hairspray and designer clothing. The young woman in front of him wore a t-shirt, baggy jeans and a loose pony tail, and still showed an effortless beauty. She flashed a smile at him that could only be called radiant, and walked over. She thrust her hand out, and the two shared an awkward handshake.

"I knew you'd be here."

"Well, I said I would, didn't I?"

"You probably get hundreds of calls like mine. You probably think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Oh, come on. A story like this?" She smiled again. "You were expecting me to come in here talking about ancient Incans and Alpha Centauri, weren't you?"

"No, not at all." Eddie leaned back in his chair. "It's the Mayans, and Zeta Reticuli. Your details are all wrong to be a crackpot. But that still doesn't explain how you knew I'd be here. Are you hiding a psychic ability, too?"

"I know your type. You're not one to miss even the slightest chance."

Eddie raised one eyebrow, and wondered if she meant the case, or something else.

"You're also, judging from what you've posted, obsessed with the truth. Even when it hurts."

"I'm not sure how to take that."

"It's a quality I respect," she said. "Besides, bullshit networks, they'd never take this seriously. It'd end up in some montage of cheap forgeries, and never talked about again. But people need to see what I have."

Eddie leaned back and let out a soft sigh. This was the part, no doubt, where she'd disprove any notion of her not being a crackpot.

It took her a moment to fish the cell phone out of her bag. One of the newer ones, Eddie noted. All the bells and whistles. She gestured for him to take it, and he did so. He stared at it a moment, then glanced back over at Caitlin.

"Well?"

"The phone has video on it." She let that sink in. "What, you were expecting it to be alive?"

"I've heard crazier stuff."

"I'm sure you have. But you need to watch the video."

Eddie wasn't so sure. Technology allowed people to do a number of things, and faking grainy, low frame rate cell phone video proved pretty easy. Still, his companion already had the phone open, working the keys to get to the video.

"They demanded all recording devices be handed over. That's when I knew something fishy was going on. I managed to get the file off onto a memory card before they checked it."

She handed the phone over, and he paused before letting it play. He wondered what he might see. Roswell aliens? That one proved pretty popular. He just told himself not to laugh when he saw it. After all, he sort of liked her. And maybe he had a chance. He played the video and, suddenly, his concerns about the girl vanished. Indeed, his thoughts focused on only what played out in front of his eyes. He watched it twice before he gave a response.

"Holy shit," he said, finally.

"That's what I thought, too."

The video proved far from perfect. It had the low frame rate, pixelization, and lack of color depth he expected. But it also had an image he never expected to see. The phone tracked an F-22 screaming down between the buildings. A few seconds later, lights on the undercarriage flared up as it unleashed its payload. He played it again, just to be sure. It was undeniable.

A United States Air Force plane fired on civilian streets.

"What else do you have?"

"Nothing on film," she said. "But more of those planes showed up, and they started dogfighting with the first one. Sun was in our eyes, that made it hard to make out a lot of detail."

"And what did the first plane fire on?"

"Dunno. All we saw were explosions."

"Too bad the markings on the plane are blurry."

She slid a piece of paper across the table. "My friend Bree's got an amazing memory for stuff like that."

Eddie smiled. "You know, I could kiss you."

"I might hold you to that."

--

"I was right, Josh."

"That's a fine how do you do, Eddie. I think all conversations should be direct, to the point. Formalities are overrated, I think."

If Eddie noticed the comment, it failed to slow him down. "Terrorists."

"Yeah, yeah. So you've been saying for a long time. Care to explain why they'd cover up a terrorist attack? The administration might consider that a bonus."

"Except for the fact they stole one of our planes."

"Oh, that ID number you turned up?"

Eddie flipped through a folder, looking at some stills of the video he'd printed. "Did you get any information?"

"Tough as shit to get into the right servers to get that stuff, you know."

"I didn't ask about how hard it was. I asked if you got the info."

"Yeah, matter of fact I did. That Raptor was missing--"

"I knew it!"

"Missing just after the incident. Strange thing is, they found parts with its serial number. Washed up on some island in the Pacific. Strange, but don't mesh with what you're saying."

"Part of the cover up?"

"Eddie, these planes ain't even officially in the fleet. Who are they covering up from? The guys in Majestic 12?"

"Maybe it was a black ops thing."

"And maybe you're grasping for straws." Josh never bothered with social conventions like eating while on the phone, and did Eddie the favor of crunching a particularly loud bite of potato chip into the receiver. "So, how much this gonna cost me?"

"What are friends for?"

"They ain't for going to jail for. And for something like this, they'd probably toss me in Gitmo. This requires money."

"You never discuss price before you do the job. You are the quintessential capitalist."

"Kiss my ass. Like you're tracking this story for Truth, Justice and the American Way. Your buddy Stan's made a decent living off this stuff. You just want a book deal, or hush money, or something. Or the girl. You kept going on about the girl."

"Whatever."

"Girls don't care about crap like this. They care about--"

Even under the best circumstances, Eddie would have ignored Josh's advice on girls. However, a burst of static stopped him cold. In fact, it wasn't quite static. It was something else, a sound he couldn't place, exactly.

"Josh, tell me that was on your end."

"Oh, for crying... the feds are tapping you now?"

"I heard something."

"Hearing voices. I knew this would happen. Look, take some time off. Take that nest egg of yours, go to Tahoe. Invite the girl if you want. Otherwise, you're just going to wind up obsessing until you turn out to be a crazy old man. Get some help, then call me, okay?"

The line went dead. Eddie stared at it a moment, wondering what he'd heard. He threw the phone aside, and went back to staring at the photos. He thought about all the incidents just before Mission City. The attack on the base in Qatar, the government hadn't offered much more information since saying it was caused by an advanced weapons system. The meteorites that crashed in Tranquility, California the day before the Mission City incident. He knew the conclusion his mentor would draw. But he couldn't believe it.

Something on the picture jumped out on him, and he found himself staring at the wing of the plane. The insignia on it looked off. It wasn't a star, but he couldn't place what it was. And yet, it nagged at him. Something familiar about its angular shape. It almost looked like--

His phone beeped, startling him. He picked it up, and saw a message showing a new text message had arrived. He had no idea who would text him. He'd never learned how to text message. He had e-mail for things like that. On the other hand, Caitlin Richards struck him as someone who would abuse text messaging. He smiled, opened the message, and almost wished he hadn't.

_You want answers. Come to the old Saratoga Club at midnight. I'll tell you everything. -tape643_

The tag at the bottom meant nothing to him. No explanation. He rubbed his eyes and looked at the clock. Ten past eleven. It sounded fishy, and a part of him felt scared. At the same time, he felt so close to the answers he'd been looking for. He looked to see who the message came from, but he only saw a series of garbled characters.

It was probably Josh, he decided. Probably Josh sending a message to mess with his head. But that little bit of mental contortion did little to ease the butterflies in his stomach. A rational man would ignore it. A sane man would just stay at home, or in the hotel room that currently served as such. What no one in their right mind would do, Eddie told himself, was follow this particular lead.

Eddie grabbed his keys.

--

The club stood several miles outside Mission City, along an old service road almost no one used anymore. Once, truckers had made this club a frequent stop. But as newer, fancier facilities sprung up along Route 66, the Saratoga Club fell out of favor and started losing money. It closed down, and a For Sale sign hung in the window. Even in the pale light, the fading on the sign was obvious.

As Eddie's car came around the corner, he peered around the empty parking lot. No sign of anyone. Maybe his contact was late. More than likely, he didn't exist. He sat in the parking lot a moment more, and looked at his phone. He debating calling Josh, just to tell him what an ass he was. Time dragged on, with no sign of anyone coming. He debated trying the door on the club, but that idea didn't appeal to him at all. After what seemed like an eternity, he checked his watch. He'd been sitting there for twenty minutes, with no sign of his contact. Sighing, he started the engine and steered the car out of the parking lot, and back onto the side road.

Red and blue lights sparked to life behind him, the sound of the siren piercing the silence. Eddie jumped, and glanced behind him. No other cars in sight. In fact, he'd never even seen the police car there. Had it been waiting for him? Either way, he pulled to the side of the road. The car pulled up behind him, lights still flashing.

"Driver, exit the vehicle."

He got out slowly, his stomach turning in knots. He didn't like the feeling of this.

"Approach the squad car."

He walked closer, and the window rolled down. The officer inside rode solo, and regarded him with a curious, almost bemused look. As he came closer, he noticed the officer remained buckled in his seat. At least that reduced the chance of him pulling a firearm.

"Where are you going tonight, sir?"

"I had... a thing."

"A thing?"

"A meeting."

"Answers." The cop smiled, but only for a second. It struck Eddie as the sort of smile Dracula might give his victims.

"You sent the message?"

He gave a stiff nod. "You're looking into the Mission City incident."

"I am." Eddie swallowed hard. "You... you want me to stop?"

"Hardly. You see, I'm interested in the truth, as well."

For the first time, he noticed the number on the car. 643. He wondered what the rest meant. "What do you know?"

That lightning quick smile came back again. "Everything."

"And you want to tell me?"

For a second, Eddie imagined he saw something. A trick of light across the officer's face, almost like he were a skull. He took a step back, and the car's engine revved. The officer shook his head from side to side.

"You need me. I need you."

"Why do you need me?"

"What do you think happened in Mission City?"

"Terrorist attack. They got control of a military plane, somehow."

"Do you have any idea," the cop said, his voice a low, menacing growl, "How wrong you are?"

"What really happened?"

"Aliens." If the cop was joking, he retained the same poker face he always had. "Aliens brought their war to this world."

Eddie relaxed a little. Sure, he was an authority figure, but a blessedly crazy one. "Aliens."

"They're among you, every day. Hiding where you least expect them. And it's going to get worse before it gets any better."

"Uh huh."

"You don't believe me?" That damn smile again. Eddie felt himself tensing again. He looked away from the officer, looking over the police car once again.

"I'm not one of these fly by night guys. I need proof."

"Proof?"

"Physical evidence. Something that proves what you're say--" Eddie stopped as he saw the text on the car's side. He'd not noticed it before, assuming it was a standard police motto. Instead, the legend read, _To Punish and Enslave._ "Wh-who are you really with?"

"One question at a time, sir. First, I'm going to give you the proof you asked for."

The officer disappeared. Eddie blinked, he was still gone. The car bolted forward, and slammed into his car. Still no driver Eddie rolled to the side, and saw the police seal. There it was, the thing he'd seen on the plane's wing. He heard the man's crazy voice in his head again.

"The mark of the beast..."

"Oh God--"

It happened before he could even react. The police car started to break apart, the smooth surface splitting into jagged surfaces. Within seconds, where the car one stood, a massive machine stood above him. One massive piece, _an arm_, Eddie realized_, Dear God, it's got an arm_, swung into his car and sent it flying into the building nearby. Another hand slammed into the ground.

"Is this good enough proof for you?" It was the officer's voice, but more mechanical. And somehow, more primal. "Does this prove what I'm saying?"

"Wh-what are you?"

Four points of red light focused on Eddie. The monster relented, ever so slightly. "I am an autonomous robotic organism from the planet Cybertron. My designation, in your language, would be Barricade. I am... was... part of an elite group of warriors known as the Decepticons."

"And... Mission City..."

"My comrades and I fought to recover our birthright. We were stopped by others of our race. As far as I know, all Decepticons were killed in that battle. Except for me."

"You escaped?"

The giant machine stood up, and took a step back. "I never made it to the battle. Long ago, I was binary bonded to a symbicant, a smaller Cybertronian life form. Frenzy was on a separate mission. As we neared Mission City... he was killed in battle. The pain I felt proved too much. But it is nothing compared to what the Autobots shall feel."

"Revenge, then?"

"That shouldn't concern you. What should is what your future holds."

"My future?"

"You have two options, fleshing. One, you can die here. Alone. Forgotten."

"I... don't like that."

"The second... I require energy, and strategic data. Neither of them I can acquire on my own, at least not without alerting the Autobots."

"And I can, is that it?"

"Indeed."

Eddie swallowed hard. "And what's in it for me?"

The machine kneeled, its face only a few inches from Eddie. "Your bargaining posture is highly dubious. But I anticipated that. Much of your modern technology came from studying our leader, Megatron, who was in statis lock. Imagine how much faster those breakthroughs can come with one of my kind willingly helping. And I have the answers you seek, about Mission City. We cannot tip our hand, but I can give you enough hints to tip your hand, and make the Autobots and their allies uncomfortable. And I'm quite sure there will be profit for you, in the long run."

Eddie made his decision long before the machine stopped speaking.

--

The young man looked around the house as the phone continued to ring. The caller proved persistent, if nothing else. He finally picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Sam Witwickey?"

"Yes."

"You've been a hard person to catch, young man."

"Who is this?"

He heard a chuckle before the man continued. "My name's Eddie Archeville, and I'd like to ask you some questions about your car."


End file.
